


Theoretical Fuck-List

by objectlesson



Category: Wildboyz RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, PWP, raunchy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is really cute, and Steve-o is really clueless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theoretical Fuck-List

**Author's Note:**

> I just recovered from an incredible dry spell. For some reason, this was the story that broke the dam, and I'm suddenly capable of writing again. I guess I just needed some Chris/Steve-o porn in my life! Because I still think it's absurd that the whole world doesn't ship the hell out of these two cuties. I mean, come on. Just watch the extras from Wildboyz...if you're not convinced after that, there's no hope. None at all. 
> 
> I don't own them, this never happened.

It was a bad idea to make the lists in the first place. But Steve-o had never been the kind of guy to identify and avoid ‘bad ideas.’ He had stapled his balls to his leg once. He put a freaking leech on his eyeball. He made his entire living off of this inability to calculate and weigh risk, so it wasn’t exactly a skill he tried to cultivate or anything. So when Bam suggested making lists of who they would most likely fuck amongst each other to pass the time during the long ass limo ride from LA to San Francisco, Steve-o was all about it. He didn’t even think about what a terrible idea it was. 

There were plenty of good reasons why Chris was second to last on Steve-o’s list. Like, _plenty_ of reasons. They were private reasons Steve-O didn’t want to share with everyone else, but they existed. He didn’t really plan for the fact that Chris’s feelings would get hurt, though. Like, how the fuck could he have predicted that? It was just a stupid list. For fun. It wasn’t like he was actually gonna fuck any of his friends.

But Chris was a sensitive guy. It was one of the things that Steve-o (secretly) liked so much about him. Chris has so many feelings. He was like a figurative fountain of feelings. And currently, one of those feelings was a hurt feeling, because there was serious discrepancy between the placement of Steve-o on Chris’s list, and Chris’s placement on Steve-o’s list. And when asked why, Steve-o had kind of lied. Or at least omitted the details. Because he was a private dude, okay? He didn’t feel like it was his _responsibility_ to tell anyone why he put them where he put them on his _theoretical_ list of _theoretical_ , never-gonna-happen fucks. It was no body’s business that he secretly liked how sensitive Chris was, and that his secret appreciation for Chris’s sensitivity had the side effect of knocking him down to second to last on Steve-O’s list of _theoretical_ fucks. No one’s fucking business.

So this was what happened. Bam was like, “I’m so bored”, and everyone was like, “yeah dude, we are too.” And he was like, “we should play a game or something to make this ride less lame and boring.” And no one wanted to at first, and everyone bitched and argued until Dave (jokingly) suggested M.A.S.H, and somehow that turned into Bam passing out little pieces of paper to everyone and telling them they should write a list of the order they would fuck the cast in if they were stuck on a desert island and had to fuck the cast. 

“Wait, why would we fuck each other if we were on a desert island together?” Johnny asked, sunglasses pushed up on his head, brow crinkled skeptically. “I think I’d be more likely to kill and eat you rather than fuck you, Bam. And definitely Preston. No offense.” 

Bam threw a pen like a miniature javelin at Johnny’s face. “Dude. It’s just a game, shut up. Why do you have to make everything gay?” 

Johnny cackled. “You’re scooting yourself down my list with all this talk.”

Steve-O sat with his pen, laughing and thinking very carefully about who he would fuck, and why. He decided that his number one criteria for choosing his order would be potential awkwardness. Because if he was stuck on a desert island with the cast of Jackass, he wouldn’t want things to be awkward. His eyes skirted over to Chris, who was sitting beside him, deep in thought, pair pulled back into a messy ponytail and eyes very grave and dark, pen cap sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he chewed it pensively. He looked like he was taking the whole thing pretty seriously. Steve-O shrugged, and went back to his own list. 

“Kay, kay is everyone done?” Bam crowed, practically bouncing in his seat. “I wanna see which of you faggots wants to fuck me the most.” 

A banana peel went sailing across the interior of the limo, landing like a dilapidated, squishy sea creature on Bam’s shoulder. He sent it sailing back, bellowing “assholes.” Steve-O wasn’t sure who threw the peel in the first place, because he was too busy putting the finishing touches on his list. 

The ritual concluded with Bam declaring that everyone read them aloud. He, of course, started them all off, seemingly unable to contain his desire to share who he wanted to fuck and who he didn’t, if he was on a desert island and had to fuck everyone. Bam started reading. His own name was at the top of the list, and everyone objected and said that he couldn’t put himself on there or fuck himself, because that was masturbation and defeated the purpose. Duh they would all masturbate before they fucked one another. “Except me!” Chris said, waving his hand in the air. “It’s always better to be touched than touch yourself, I think.” 

“Speak for yourself, dude,” Bam said, finally agreeing to cross him himself off his list, leaving the messy scrawl of “knoxville” as his number one. Johnny showed Bam his own list, pointing towards the bottom, grinning, and saying, “Whoops. Guess you got a bit of an unrequited thing going here.” 

Everyone laughed. It made Steve-O feel better about the whole thing to see Bam taking his pitiful placement on Johnny’s list so well. Plus, Bam was at the top of Dunn’s where Dunn was at the bottom of Bam’s. Even if Bam was only putting him there because making fun of Dunn was his favorite pass time in the entire world, it was good that everyone was laughing. Seeing as Steve-o’s number one criteria was to avoid potential awkwardness, the laughter was a good thing. Also, no one was even really explaining why their list was in the order it was, they were just reading them and then everyone was roaring with laughter. It was no big deal. It was all just for fun.

Chris read his next. It was the only one with explicit reasons, written parenthetically after the names. It was as follows: 

Steve-O :)   
Johnny ‘abs’ knoxville because SEXY!  
Bam (because he has that girly butt)  
Dunn (I love a man with a beard)  
Wee man (I’ve never tried midget sex before!)   
Ehren (always love a little Danger)  
Dave (too much poop :( sorry. but you’re still cute)  
Preston (sorry preston!)

Steve-O was oddly (or not so oddly, he wasn’t an idiot or anything) pleased by Chris’s list, and that no one was above him. Not even Chris’s own hand, apparently. If there had been someone above him, he would have been wondering why. “How come I don’t get a compliment? You don’t like my beard? How come I don’t get one of these?” He asked, pointing towards “sorry preston.” 

“Because you get a smiley face,” Chris said, grinning. Steve-o grinned back, thinking about all the shit Chris did that made him dumb. 

“Steve-O next!” Bam yelled. “Come on, Steve-O. Read’em.” 

“Yeah, okay, okay. Shut up. Are you ready?” Steve-O asked everyone. He was thinking about the fact he was first on Chris’s list, and that he got a smiley face, but he wasn’t thinking about how that would look in comparison to Chris’s placement on his own list. After all, Bam hadn’t cared about being at the bottom of Johnny’s. Dunn hadn’t cared that he was at the bottom of Bam’s (or Dave or Weeman’s, both of which had said, ‘because you’re nasty’ when asked why he had gotten less than stellar fuck-ratings). Steve-O was mostly thinking about how shockingly not awkward this whole thing was. So he cleared his throat, and read his list, which was as follows. 

Weeman  
Knoxville  
Dave  
Ehren  
Bam  
Dunn  
Chris  
Preston

Weeman fist-pumped, and everyone else just laughed and said “Ohhh, Preston, another bottom dude!” while patting Preston good naturedly on the shoulder. Everyone but Chris, that is. Chris just sat there, looking wounded and kind of laughing, but not in his usual broken-open wide laughter, his split face and white teeth and twinkling eyes. His laugh seemed a little forced. Then his elbow pressed into Steve-O’s ribs. “Burn, man! I didn’t get a smiley face from you.” 

Steve-O shrugged, and scratched a quick smiley next to Chris’s name, pushing his body towards the pressure of Chris’s elbow. “Now you do,” he offered. 

Chris looked like he wanted to say something else, but Ehren was already reading his list, and everyone wanted to know where they ranked. The issue between them was temporarily dropped, but Steve-o could sense that Chris’s feelings were hurt. His laugh was different, and his body language was more muted, more serious. Years of watching Chris and the way Chris did things allowed Steve-o a certain kind of insight into his subtleties, and maybe no one else could tell he was bummed, but Steve-o could. That’s when it dawned on him. _Aw shit. This was a bad idea._

\---

Chris acted kinda weird for the next few hours in car. It wasn’t anything too obvious, just a sudden nap that wasn’t really a nap (Steve-o knew the way Chris breathed when he was asleep, and he wasn’t breathing like that) and an overall uncharacteristic quietness. Steve-o felt sort of bad. No one else seemed to notice. 

The topic of desert island fuck lists had naturally faded from conversation, with the exception of the one time Johnny uncrumpled a piece of paper near his leg, found it to be Steve-o’s list and said, “Dude, why wasn’t Chris your first choice? You guys have like, practically had sex on camera, anyway.” 

Steve-o punched Johnny in the arm, shaking his head. He was totally done with this bullshit. Before he could answer Chris raised his head from where it was pillowed on his arm, giving up on the whole fake sleeping thing. “Yeah Steve-o,” he said, trying to smile like this was all a joke but still clearly miffed. Steve-o felt very put on the spot, so he said the first semi-logical thing he could come up with. 

“Chris has such a big dick. It would like, tear me in half.” 

Johnny cracked up, his face in his hands. Steve-o was forced to stare into his own reflection shining on the lenses of Johnny’s sunglasses. Chris laughed a little, but it faded into him asking, “What if you fucked me instead?” 

“Then it would tear my self esteem in half. I dunno. It was just a stupid list, dude,” Steve-o pleaded, his hand on Chris’s thigh to steady himself. Chris’s gaze dropped and lingered on where they were touching, so Steve-o moved his hand, feeling weird. 

“Yeah, okay,” Chris said, and went back to fake sleep. 

The thing was, Steve-o had lots of reasons why Chris wasn’t at the top of his list. But he didn’t want to tell Johnny. And he definitely didn’t want to tell Chris. They were real reasons. Good reasons. Like, for example: Chris was really, _really_ cute. That was the biggest, most compelling reason. If Steve-o didn’t want things to be awkward during of after this desert island sex, then he couldn’t think the person he was having sex with was cute. Because he’s get into it. He’d get hard and probably moan and definitely come and if you’re having sex with one of your best friends, you don’t want to lose control during it or anything. You want to laugh the whole time. 

If Steve-o had sex with Weeman, they would both crack up. They wouldn’t get into it or lose control. It would be one big joke. Hell, they might not even be able to get it up. And if they did Weeman’s dick would still be bigger than Steve-o’s and that’s just hilarious. Insta-awkward-killer. But with Chris...Steve-o didn’t trust himself to laugh the whole time. He would have to blindfold himself or something if he were gonna pull that off. 

He wasn’t gay or anything. It wasn’t like thinking Chris was impossibly cute made him _gay_. Pretty much everyone probably thought Chris was impossibly cute, because he was. He was fucking irresistibly adorable. The only reason why anyone else had him near the top of their lists was _because_ he was adorable, and they were going for fucking the cutest cast members rather than the least awkward ones. Obviously. 

Steve-o made peace a long time ago with the fact Chris was cute. It used to confuse him because it was so excessive and distracting all the time, but he had since learned to live with it. It was just one of those things that was true, and annoying, but he dealt with, just like hangovers and gas prices and stuff. Chris was cute. He had big brown eyes and a smile that could only be described as dazzling (Steve-o hated this word but there wasn’t a better one for Chris’s smile, okay?) and he didn’t give a shit about anything. He was like a puppy, twinkling eyes and wagging tail and that bouncy, wiggly quality that puppies had that made you just go _aww._ Puppies made Steve-o powerless. It wasn’t his fault. He was reckoning against a force of _nature_ , give him a break. 

One of the other reasons was that in addition to being really fucking cute, Chris was also really fucking good in bed. Steve-o knew this from all the times they were filming Wildboyz and Chris brought home like three girls a night no matter what country they were in and every single girl was a fucking knockout. And every single girl screamed passionately all night long and stuff. And maybe this whole story was somewhat of an exaggeration of sorts, but Steve-o only used hyperbole to emphasize the confidence he had in what a fantastic fuck Chris must be that all these Thai women kept him up until five in the morning. 

It should be noted that Steve-o, by no means, was a dead fuck or anything. He was also more than capable of keeping ladies moaning his name until all hours of the night, too. But that was the thing. If Chris was phenomenal in bed, and Steve-o was phenomenal in bed, and they had sex, the world would probably implode or something. The space time continuum would be forever altered. The desert island would sink into the Pacific. 

Or, at the very least, the sex would be so very excellent that Steve-o would cease to be interested in anything else. In fact, he might cease doing all the activities in his life that he was also interested in. In short, sex with Chris could be the impetus that stagnated Steve-o’s entire career and personal growth. 

It was unlikely, but also frightening enough that he didn’t want to risk it. 

There was no good way to explain all this to Chris, though. It wasn’t like Steve-o could just apologize and be like, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, dude. The only reasons why you were so low on my list are that I kind of worry that if I had sex with you, I’d like it too much and never want to do anything else with my life and that would kind of be a problem because a guy has to eat and shit and stuff.” 

No outcome that Steve-o could imagine coming from such a conversation would go over very well, so he guessed that he would just have to settle for being stuck in a limo with stupid, grumpy, hurt-feelings, insufferably cute Chris for a few more hours. 

\---

Chris and Steve-o always shared a hotel room when there was a hotel room shortage. Other guys _would_ , usually Dunn or Bam would get exiled to the floor on exceptionally tight budgets, but that was only _after_ Chris and Steve-o had already piled together in a bed. It didn’t seem like a big deal, or even a small one, to share a room after they’d shared so many freaking tents while filming Wildboys. Once you’ve slept in a mosquito net built for one person with your nearly-naked friend because it’s too fucking hot and humid to wear anything but boxers, the prospect of sharing something as spacious and comfortable as a hotel bed seems entirely commonplace. Even preferable. Steve-o gets cold at night, anyway. It’s nice to have another body to cuddle accidentally in his sleep. 

So bed sharing. With Chris. It never seemed like a big deal, until now, of course. Once their Limo finally rolled up where it needed to be, and they did the shit they needed to do, they checked in to their hotel rooms, and of course, Johnny tossed Steve-o a card and said, “Here’s you and Pontius.” Like it was _assumed_ that they were sharing a room. And on any other day, Steve-o wouldn’t have said or thought shit about it, but today was all weird. And plus, he dropped the key, had to bend over to pick it up, and while he was awkwardly bent over, he totally heard Chris _scoff_ at him. He made some noise in this throat. Steve-o didn’t like it. 

“Dude, did you just laugh at me for dropping this thing?” Steve-o said once he righted himself. Chris’s eyes got dinner-plate huge, his stupid, perpetually messy mop of hair sticking up all over the place from fake-sleeping in the limo. 

“No,” Chris said, which was a very un-Chris response to pretty much anything. It was monosyllabic and unaccompanied by laughter. It didn’t even sound like him. His feelings were clearly still hurt, and Steve-o was desperate, so he threw the little plastic card right at Chris’s chest. 

“You try and catch the thing,” he said. He really chucked it. It was sailing through the air. 

Chris put his hands up to defend himself, and plastic ricocheted off his palms. “Oouch!” He whined Then he chuckled. Familiar, low in his throat, bubbling like a wild stream through the forest or something. Steve-o was so relieved. He dashed to pick up the key before Chris could get to it. 

“Do you, like, not want to share a bed with me anymore because you’d rather be boning Weeman?” Chris laughed sheepishly, elbows drawn in together towards his chest, hands held in the no-man’s land near his face. It was what Steve-o privately thought of as Chris’s bunny pose, because he looked like a bunny. The bunny pose was another revoltingly cute thing that Chris did that confused Steve-o before he learned to accept it. 

He reached out and pushed Chris’s hands down from their bunny position into a normal, human position. “No, dude, why would you even _say_ that?” he answered, wrinkling his nose. Chris’s grin split into a wider version of itself, spreading, endless, shattering in its brightness. Steve-o felt like things inside his chest were expanding along with Chris’s grin, and he felt a little better about the whole thing. Maybe Chris was over it. Maybe sex with one another would never ever come up in conversation ever again and they could go back to it all being a joke, with kissing each other and smacking each other’s butts and weiners and cuddling while shirtless all just something they did to laugh at, instead of something they did because Steve-o actually secretly wanted to or whatever. 

As Chris and Steve-o trumped off to their motel room, Steve-o started to realize how completely exhausted he was. It snuck up on him, that aching travel exhaustion he always got from sitting around in the car all day. “I am freaking wiped out,” he yawned, stretching his arm up above his head and leaning into the door frame while he fumbled with the key. “What about you? You slept in the car, huh?” 

“Not really,” Chris smiled, and Steve-o thought he could sense a little edge of self-deprecation or something else sad tilting the corner of Chris’s mouth. Steve-o studied it, trying to put a name to the shape, but he was too tired. “I was basically just bummed out that you’d rather fuck pretty much everyone besides Preston before you’d fuck me.” 

“Geez dude, way to lay it out there,” Steve-o mumbled, pushing into the hotel room once the little green light flashed mockingly at him. “It was just a freaking list thing. I wrote it in like two seconds, who cares? I obviously like you better than all those fools anyway, why are we still talking about it?” 

“Dunno. I should stop thinking about it,” Chris said, thumping face down onto the single bed once they were in the room. And for the first in actually forever, Steve-o wondered if he should sleep on the floor or something. Because this whole deal was suddenly uncomfortable. Like, why the hell was Chris _talking_ about the list thing? And why was he using such a blunt, obvious word like “fuck” to talk about it? If Steve-o was in his position, and had hurt feelings about something involving hypothetical sex with his friend, he wouldn’t use the word fuck. Hell, he wouldn’t talk about it at all. He would lock himself up in the bathroom with a blunt and be sad about it until he couldn’t feel anymore. He definitely wouldn't be like, “I’m sad because you don’t want to have sex with me.” 

 

Steve-o decided the best way to talk about this thing was to go take a shower and ignore Chris. Maybe Chris would be asleep by the time he finished his shower. It was almost midnight anyway. Maybe if Chris was already asleep in the bed, then he wouldn’t notice and get his feelings hurt even more if Steve-o slept on the floor. 

Steve-o sighed, and rubbed his face before he stepped out of his board shorts and pulled his shirt over his head, grossed out by the chip crumbs and stuff that rolled out of the fabric. Cars were so gross. Traveling by car was the worst. It was all the stupid limo’s fault that Bam enlisted them all to play that stupid game and now stupid Chris wouldn’t drop the whole dumb sex thing. It was crazy unfair. Steve-o stepped into the shower, shaking his head while the water clattered down around him, not quite warm enough yet. 

He waited for it to get hot, and soaped up his dick for like fifteen minutes because fifteen minutes of his twenty minute showers were spent soaping up his dick. He kept thinking about Chris moping in the bed they would most likely end up sharing tonight. He kept thinking about Chris’s ultra-cute smile, and his impossibly stupid bunny pose, and how awkwardly he moved and how it wasn’t awkward because Chris didn’t notice or care that it was awkward so it ended up canceling itself out. He rubbed his face again, hard, and wondered what the fuck was wrong with him, and how Chris probably wouldn’t be so butt hurt about being second to last on Steve-o’s list if he knew about the weird obsessive shit Steve-o thought about him in the shower. 

Usually Steve-o showered until there was no hot water left, but this was a hotel and there was more water here than at his house. So he had to just _decide_ to get out, once he was clean and his dick was thoroughly soaped and there was nothing else to do but stand there and face the truth that he was avoiding sleeping with Chris because he wanted to _sleep_ with Chris, secretly, like _actually_ sleep with him. But he never could because of all the reasons that led him to write everyone’s name (save for Preston because, come on, every guy has standards) above Chris’s in the limo. 

Steve-o dried off, tossed his boxers back on, and braved the hotel room. 

\---

Chris was lying on the bed in his underwear playing with his phone, which he slid onto the bedside table pointedly as Steve-o sat down on the edge of the bed. It was a very clear _I want to talk_ gesture. Steve-o’s stomach dropped. He tried not to look at Chris, because he would undoubtedly find Chris very, very cute, and he was aware that he really would rather not think that at this moment. 

“Okay. So I have one more question for you before I drop this whole list thing entirely, okay? I need closure or something,” Chris said, sitting up and crossing his legs. He looked really dorky, like Tarzan or something with his mess of hair and tan, inexpertly toned body all crunched up on the crisp, white hotel sheets. He looked ridiculous. And Steve-o still thought he was cute; it was a fucking travesty. 

Steve-o stood up and walked away, to nowhere in particular, very abruptly. “No, dude. I don’t want to talk about it,” he barked, voice kind of cracking squeakily over the last few words. He knew he was overreacting, but he had to end this conversation before it strayed into dangerous territory. 

Chris flopped onto his back and impatiently kicked the air. “Nooo it’s killing me. I have to know. Then we can stop and play Grand Theft Auto.” 

Steve-o’s eyes darted to Chris’s suitcase, which he knew had the X box in it. All he had to do was answer this one question, and his future would be the safe, calming world of X box. He could do it. He huffed impatiently and crossed his arms, tentatively sneaking back to the bed to sit down a safe distance away from Chris. “Okay. Fine. One question and then we’re never talking about this stupid bullshit ever again, right?” 

“Right!” Chris said, sitting up again and grinning. 

Steve-o sighed and braced himself. 

“Okay,” Chris started, holding up his hands in an almost bunny position. “So what was the _real_ reason why you didn’t put me at the top of your list? Like, I thought...” 

“What did you think?” Steve-o asked before he could stop himself, mouth and throat suddenly very dry. 

Chris looked taken aback. He shrugged, still smiling good-naturedly. “I just thought we’d be each other’s first choices. Like, why the hell not? We’re better friends than--”

“Dude, that’s _why!_ ” Steve-o said, exasperated. “We’re actually friends. It would be awkward because we’re actually good friends. It would be different.” 

Chris stared at him with a very deliberate stare, looking kind of confused. His eyes were really dark, and Steve-o would have looked away, but it was inexplicably difficult to move any part of his body right now, even his eyeballs. “I don’t think it would be awkward,” Chris said, so fucking earnestly that Steve-o really, really wanted to make out with him. 

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Steve-o said desperately. “It wouldn’t be awkward _for you_ , maybe, but it would be awkward for me. Like, I’d be so weird about it, because things are like, different with you.” 

Steve-o panicked, because Chris’s eyes lit up like freaking sparklers on the fourth of July. He felt incinerated. Plus, Chris actually _reached for him_ , put is hands on his shoulders while he climbed up onto his knees, all excited-puppy looking while he said, “Yeah, see, now we’re getting somewhere. Why would it be different?” 

Steve-o wrenched his body away, appalled that Chris chose to _touch him_ at such a moment. He was kind of scaring himself with all the feelings he was feeling, the affection and the self-disgust and the lack of control all coursing though clumsy limbs. There was no reason why this should be weird. He and Chris touched _all the time_ , they did shit shat was so much gayer than this. But something about the air was different. He could feel it. All this stuff that usually made Steve-o brave, the alcohol and the camera and the laughter and the crowd, were absent from this stupid hotel room. It was just Chris, Chris and his smile and his insistence and his weird, impossible, adorable innocence. Steve-o clenched his fists, and leaned away, wincing. 

“It just would be?” he said awkwardly, a total non-answer. 

“Yeah, because it would actually be good, right?” 

Steve-o put his face in his hands, overwhelmed. He rubbed his eyes with his palms, cheeks hot and underarms suddenly sweaty. He had no idea what was going on. “Dude, I dunno. I am like, so confused. I don’t know why we’re talking about this.” 

Chris’s hands were on his shoulders, and he didn’t feel together enough to do anything about it, so he just let Chris touch him and stuff. “You’re so fucking stupid sometimes,” Chris said, his voice all quiet and sweet how it got when something really awful was biting or pecking or pissing on Steve-o and he needed moral support. He laughed, low, soft, and Steve-o sniffled, miserable. 

“No, you are,” he said stupidly. 

“Yeah but you’re way worse. You know, when you like someone you should put them at the top of your hypothetical fuck-list, okay, dude? Otherwise they wonder what’s wrong and worry about stuff.” 

“What are you worried about?” Steve-o said, voice muffled by his hands. Chris was like, really fucking touching him. Up his neck, down his back, these soft, unsure, feral touches that felt so good they were distracting Steve-o from the fact he was supposed to be upset and resisting this whole situation. Chris’s skin was too hot and radiating too close to him, the weight of his hands insistent and kneading experimentally up the bony knob of Steve-o’s spine. 

“Can I see your face?” Chris asked, voice a hush. 

Steve-o looked up from his hands, pouting and red-cheeked and whimpering. Chris was way too close to him. He could smell his sweat and his breath and his dirty hair and it reminded him of all the time he spent here, invading Chris’s space, pushing closer and closer because he apparently couldn’t even help himself. All the times he thought didn’t mean anything, but clearly did. For him. For both of them. This was way too fucking much.

“Yeah, see?” Chris said, rubbing his thumb down Steve-o’s cheekbone. “You’re so goddamn cute, man. You have such a good face.” 

“What?” Steve-o asked, snorting through his weird, nervous half-tears. This was all insane. Impossible. He’s slipped down a portal into an alternate universe or something. Then he made the mistake of meeting Chris’s eyes, which was a terrible idea because aside from being painfully adorable, Chris could also be incredibly sexy and actually fucking hot and intense in certain moments and this was one of those moments.

“Yeah. You could have done this whenever, dude. I would have let you,” Chris said, voice low, eyes half-lidded, and Steve-o was beyond bewildered, because one of Chris’s hands was way, way up high on his thigh, and it kept moving higher, until it was on his very, very well soaped dick. 

“What’s happening,” Steve-asked, hands flying out to brace themselves reflexively on Chris’s broad, rounded shoulders to steady himself, because he felt like he was falling down some black hole of uncertainty. But the thing was, he knew what was happening. It was the thing he wanted to happen but knew couldn’t happen because he had all these really good reasons. Unfortunately, he could not think of a single one right now. _Not a single one._ All the careful consideration he put into the topic earlier today had just flown out the window. Completely vanished. His dick was twitching under the near-perfect warmth and pressure of Chris’s hand, and he just wanted it, flat out, free of all reason. “Fuck,” he said, forehead knocking into Chris’s. 

“Yeah, see? Good?” 

“Dude,” Steve-o said thickly, around the saltiness of Chris’s thumb because his thumb was in his mouth, pushing past his lips and hooking in the slickness of his inner cheek and Steve-o’s stupid, betraying tongue was licking the pad of it like he didn’t have a hundred good reasons why he should stop. 

And then, Chris was kissing him, and Steve-o was kissing back. It was stupid easy. Chris’s lips were soft and his stubble was rough and between all that his tongue was wet and slippery against Steve-o’s and how the fuck this whole thing escalated so quickly, Steve-o didn’t know. But what was worse is that he _didn’t even care_. His fingers curled into a fistful of Chris’s hair, his other hand mauled up Chris’s toned arm, digging into his sticky muscle, the weirdly familiar grooves between flexing tendons. It felt so fucking good. But not as good as Chris’s palming his dick through his boxers. That felt fucking _incredible_. 

Steve-o had lots of hands on his dick in the past. This shouldn’t have been a revelation or anything, but for some reason it _felt_ like one. It felt like the whole world had been whittled down to this one point of contact. It felt like Steve-o had been waiting his whole life for Chris’s hand on his dick, like every other hand that had ever touched his dick was just practice for this one life ending time. It felt like nothing in the universe made sense except before this moment but Steve-o never even _knew_ nothing made sense until Chris touched his dick and then everything made sense. It was pretty profound. 

He kept thinking, _oh, ohhhh_ in this awed way while Chris wrestled him down onto the bed, smoothing him out and knocking his knees apart to fit between their unguarded splay, their mouths sealed and working together messily. _Oh. This was what it was the whole time. The meaning of the universe. I was living in a fucking existential crisis of epic proportions and didn’t even know it._

Their mouths disconnected with a wet sucking sound, and Steve-o caught a glimpse of two spots of violent color on Chris’s cheeks, hectic and beautiful, his hair sticking to sweat on his temple, before Chris fixed his mouth on Steve-o’s left nipple, right below the penis heartogram. Steve-o’s vision whited out and he kind of screamed a little bit, kicking the air. Chris laughed, a low chuckle that rumbled into Steve-o’s skin. “Cute noises,” Chris observed.

“Dude,” Steve-o choked out again, blinking back stars. “This is crazy. This whole thing is crazy” he said stupidly. He didn’t care he was making noises. The whole stupid world could hear him making noises, and he would just keep right on doing what he was doing. 

Chris palmed up his chest, hands leaving pink marks all over Steve-o’s pale chest, his grin this flashing, blinding beacon amid blood-thundering sex-darkness. “What, you didn’t think this would happen eventually? Because I thought, or like, _hoped_ it was just a matter of time before some shit we did turned into this.” 

“Uh, _No!_ ” Steve-o gasped, thunking his head uselessly around on the mattress while Chris yanked his shorts off. “I definitely, like _definitely_ didn’t think it would happen. I thought it couldn’t. Don’t remember why.” Chris’s mouth, the hottest thing he had ever felt on his skin, scalded down between the divot of his ribcage, and down further, along his happy trail. The muscles in his stomach quivered, the whole of his skin spasming and clenching and twitching as he lurched around under Chris, beyond himself. He felt like a pinball in a pinball machine, crazy and ricocheting off everything, noisy and flashing, and Chris was all the levers. 

Chris flat out laughed at him, holding his hips down, looking at the flush on his neck with this vast, touchable excitement radiating off him. Steve-o could feel himself baking under it, dissolving and coming apart into smaller, even stupider versions of himself. He swallowed thickly, distantly aware that he could not formulate a single coherent sentence let alone thought. Not with Chris looming over him, not with Chris’s jerking him off slow and firm. 

Steve-o closed his eyes, shivering and overwhelmed as Chris’s mouth opened on the pale, hairy crease where his thigh met his body. “Fuck,” he cursed, kicking wildly, tightening his grip in Chris’s hair. 

“You are so jumpy,” Chris murmured, words soft against Steve-o’s skin. “Can hardly hold you down.” 

“Fuckkk,” Steve-o said again, because apparently it was what his vocabulary was limited to, and he didn’t feel like sharing the pinball analogy with Chris. He thrashed around, wanting so very badly for Chris to quit kissing him other places and suck his dick already, but also being kind of scared for the possibly world-ending results of such an action. If Chris’s hand on his dick was a revelation, then his mouth could be the book of Revelation. 

Then, it happened. Slick, wet, impossible heat closing over the crown of his dick. Hellfire and earthquakes and the beast of Babylon and stuff. The end of the world. “ _Jesus, fuck, Chris_ ,” he crowed hysterically, closing his thighs vice-like around Chris’s neck. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, light exploding behind the lids as he thrust clumsily into Chris’s mouth. “You’re like, fucking...aaaauuughhshggsd.”

Chris’s laugh vibrated around Steve-o’s shaft, and he almost shot his load right then and there. This was crazy. It was insane. It was like an acid trip in this dick. Actually, it was better than that. It was like a metal show, on acid, in his dick. There was like a rain of blood and wailing guitars and hallucinatory whirls of light and color _in his dick._ “Dude,” he keened, pushing desperately on Chris’s shoulders, fingers leaving pale indentations in his skin. It was definitely an apocalyptic blowjob. “I feel like I’m gonna _die._ But don’t stop.” 

Usually, Steve-o had to thrust a lot in order to meet whoever was sucking him off half-way, but with Chris, he was holding on, locking his hips so he could just be sucked on, it felt so good. Chris was holding the base of his dick in a fist, jerking him off while he lapped at the tip, and Steve-o could _feel_ himself twitching under his tongue, he could feel himself leaking precum like a goddamn sex faucet of the devil. “Jesus,” he said again, profaning the name of lord with much relish. It was too good. It was all he wanted to do for the rest of his life forever. Chris just ruined his bright, bright future, and _he didn’t even care_. 

Then, quite suddenly, his vision cleared. The heat was gone, and Chris was struggling from the trap Steve-o’s thighs had him in. Steve-o’s dick was no longer being sucked into end-of-the world oblivion, hurtling through Hell’s Bells on LSD. “What are you doing?” Steve-o’s voice scraped, hoarse and pathetic. 

But then Chris was kissing him again, so he couldn’t talk or think or anything. He sucked on Chris’s tongue, his body spread out and sweating and tingling under Chris’s lung-crushing weight. “I was about to bust a nut,” he said once Chris let his lips go, voice high and lame and whiney sounding. 

“Yeah, I could feel you. I just want you to do it on me instead,” Chris said, grinding himself down onto Steve-o’s narrow thigh. “Want you to bust that nut on my chest or something.” 

“Oh man,” Steve-o hissed, gritting his teeth and pushing himself against Chris’s body like he would explode if there was any space between their skins. And then, abruptly, Steve-o remembered that Chris had a dick, too, which was probably as hard and horny and wanting as Steve-o’s was now. And Steve-o had never sucked dick or jerked off another guy or anything, but that didn’t stop him from being instantly excited by the prospect of it. He reached clumsily between their bodies, blindly searching for the tent in Chris’s boxers. His fingers brushed against wet fabric, and Chris’s steel-hard dick underneath that, and his own heart clenched up like a fist. 

Chris tensed, breath coming out short and fast and labored as Steve-o touched him experimentally. His dick was huge; it seemed impossible. Like, how could a guy so humble and adorable have such an enormous dick? “You’re so big, dude,” Steve-o breathed. 

“It’s not gonna perforate your self-esteem to jack me off, right?” Chris asked, thrusting into Steve-o’s palm, grinning wildly, petting Steve-o’s hair with a big, heavy, damp palm.

Steve-o didn’t know what the word perforate meant, but he shook his head _no_ anyway. “I want to. Like so bad, holy shit.” He licked his lips, tasting Chris’s spit, salty and metallic and way too good. He slid shaking fingers under the elastic waistband of Chris’s boxers, feeling the wet, sticky molten skin of his dick. “Oh my _god_ ,” he mumbled. “Fuck. This is crazy.” 

Chris laughed, sitting back and wiggling inelegantly out of his boxers. Steve-o had seen Chris’s dick at least seven hundred times before in his life. He thought he was entirely desensitized to the image of Chris’s dick. He was totally wrong. He realized that he had never seen Chris’s dick _like this_ : hard, red-purple, throbbing and leaking and porn-huge and proud in all its glory. Steve-o’s mouth actually fucking _watered,_ and he wasn’t even gay. Chris probably had the power to _kill_ gay guys with just the deliciousness of his dick. “Fuck,” Steve-o said, adam’s apple bobbing, reaching for Chris with a greedy hand. “You look, like, really good.” 

Chris cracked up, moving to his hands and knees so he could straddle Steve-o, give them both room to touch one another. Steve-o palmed Chris’s thick, burning shaft , jerking him the way he would himself, fast and hard and unashamed. He watched the red crown get slicker and beaded with precum, fascinated. It was like he had been doing this all his life. He was a secret gay sex machine and he didn’t even know it.

Sitting back on his haunches a little, Chris groaned, mouth falling open into a really sexy ‘o’ as Steve-o jacked him off. His abdominals clenched and flickered under golden skin, sweat running down between his pecs in salty rivulets. Steve-o leaned forward, licking it up, Chris’s dick twitching helplessly in his palm. 

“Wait, hey. Hey,” Chris breathed after a little while, grinding his forehead into Steve-o’s shoulder, fitting his hands along the gathering muscles in his thighs. He kissed Steve-o soft, with just his lips for a minute, and it felt weird. Tender. Intense in this way that made Steve-o feel like Chris was a momma bird and he was a baby bird and he was tucked under his fluffy wing or something. Not bad, just definitely weird. His hand stilled, a firm, solid grip on Chris’s dick while he raised an eyebrow, wondering why things were suddenly slowing down to this (incestuous) bird-family pace. 

“What’s up?” He asked, eyes squinty and blinded against the brilliance of Chris’s grin. “You’re getting all sweet and stuff.”

Chuckling, Chris rolled off of him, lying on his side like a sexy, naked man-panther. “I’m not getting sweet, I’m always sweet.” 

“Yeah, good point,” Steve-o said dumbly, checking out Chris with these big, sweeping, unabashed once-over looks. He jacked himself off lazily, amazed by how achingly hard he still was. “Then what.” 

“You’re just really sexy and I want to make this last longer than it will if I don’t keep stopping stuff,” Chris said matter of factly, grinning and rubbing his own nipples. 

“Oh so you’re like, making it romantic?” Steve-o said, and as he said it he realized that he was blushing ultra-dorkily. Like he _wanted_ Chris to make it romantic. Like it didn’t freak him out that this wasn’t just him and his bro-circle jerking it or whatever. Or even him and his best friend accidentally having drunken sex. It was full on sober, apocalypse sex. The real deal. Romance included. 

Chris laughed, reaching out and smoothing his palm down Steve-o’s damp, flushed sternum.   
“Yeah. If you’re cool with it,” he said through his grin, scooting his body closer to Steve-o’s, closer and closer until he was pressed against him, close enough to thrust his hard dick into the hollow of Steve-o’s bony hip. Steve-o canted into the heat, groaning and rutting up into Chris’s thigh in response. 

“I’m cool with it,” he murmured idiotically, all soft and dumb, into Chris’s neck. He smelled dirty and good, and little pilled up muddy bits of his skin were coming off in Steve-o’s searching hands because who knows the last time Chris took a shower. He could feel the layer of sweat and limo-travel-dirt on him, and wanted to rub it off, so that he could touch Chris’s skin and muscles in this raw, unobstructed way. I was totally a gay thing to want, and he didn’t care. Not even a little bit. 

Chris kissed him hard, pushing him down into the mattress and grinding his hot, compact body all along him, into him, so their hips locked and welded together with precum and salt and body silt. It felt fucking incredible, like Steve-o could totally just drown in it. He grabbed Chris in his fists, pulled on him, kneaded the ridges of his spine and up into his oily scalp, his hips rocking up into the solidity of flesh. 

_Oh my god_ Steve-o thought, the one solitary, repeating mantra in his otherwise sex-desolate mind. _Oh my god, oh my god_. Even though this was actually too sinful to be god’s work or anything, and was most definitely the work of the freaking devil. But _oh dark lord_ wasn’t on the broken record in his brain. It was most definitely _oh my god_. Which was just a testament to how good this all way, seeing as Steve-o was generally a pray to the dark lord type, when it came to praying. 

Their mouths would slide apart so Chris could bite Steve-o’s neck and shoulder, wet and sharp and way too good. Steve-o let his head fall back, let Chris maul his throat with his tongue and teeth, let his hips roll desperately into the warm wet plane of Chris’s thigh until suddenly, it was too much. If Chris wanted him to hold on longer, if he wanted them to stop so he could push their bodies into some new position, he was fucked, because Steve-o was too blissed out to stop himself. His vision went white and pulsing and he was coming, this crazy, blinding explosion with shrapnel and shit. 

“Oh fuck yeah,” Chris said, peeling their chests apart so that he could look between their bodies with half lidded eyes and see the messy slick of jizz Steve-o was squirting all over both of them. “That’s what I wanted,” he murmured, hand on the back of Steve-o’s neck. 

“fuuu-uuu-hhuck,” Steve-o’s voice scraped as he emptied himself out. 

Chris’s hands were all over Steve-o’s skin, smearing the wet heat of his jizz up to his throat, down to his thighs. Steve-o let him, feeling weak and stupid and pliant under such sure palms. Then, suddenly, he was being flipped over. “Whoa,” he mumbled, though not in protest exactly. He was too bad at thinking and talking right now to formulate any kind of coherent protest. Chris was straddling him, down where his thighs met his ass. And fuck, Steve-o could feel the thick, thrumming shaft of Chris’s dick bisecting his ass, sliding molten and steel-hard along the crack like it was made to fit there, the pathway smoothed by a mouthful of spit. And it was heaven. 

Even though Steve-o had just shot a huge load, his dick twitched in response. Chris wasn’t fucking him, just rubbing his dick against his hole, nudging against it with the tip at most. But Steve-o was so pathetically, seriously at his mercy that if Chris _wanted_ to fuck him, Steve-o wold totally let him. He was beyond stopping anything that was happening, his ass pushed into the air to meet Chris’s thrusts, eyes shut and lids flickering. Chris had his palm over Steve-o’s throat, thumb rubbing the divots alongside his adam’s apple while he humped his ass, kissing the back of his neck with wet, rough kisses. 

“Gonna come against you,” Chris breathed, his hips working desperately against Steve-o, his pubes scouring his delicate ass skin mercilessly. 

“Oh, yeah, fuck dude, do it,” Steve-o moaned, totally over feeling ashamed for sounding like a pornstar by now. Chris’s dick started twitching against his hole, and Steve-o could hardly fucking _stand_ how bad he wanted him to come all over him. Inside of him. Ribbons and ribbons of come. He would fucking _drink_ the shit if it was humanly possible to shift his body in such a way to catch the explosion in his mouth, but it wasn’t. So he just arched his back and sobbed into the sheets while Chris painted his ass and lower back in burning parabolas of jizz. “Auuugh,” Steve-o groaned, rubbing up into Chris’s spasming thigh muscles. “Feel so good.” 

Chris collapsed on him, weighing a million pounds and laughing his stupid, life-ruining, adorable laugh. The vibration of it rumbled through Steve-o’s shoulders, down to his bones. The static started to clear from vision, but only barely, as Chris said, “Dude, fucking you is hilarious because there’s like, this big smiling portrait of yourself on your back.” 

Steve-o cracked up, his laughter shaking Chris clumsily off his body. Chris rolled beside him, the planes of their flesh still stuck together with sweat and jizz and stuff. 

“But I felt really good about myself. You were giving me the thumbs up,” Chris explained, tracing the outline of the dude fucking the ostrich on the inside of Steve-o’s bicep. 

“Good. That’s what it’s for. To affirm whoever is fucking my ass. Because I get my ass fucked all the time,” Steve-o mumbled, starting to get kind of self-conscious as he realized he was sprawled out naked next to Chris all crusty with his own sperm and sweat, debauched and messy and very aware of all the pornstar sounds he’d been making. Then, it hit him. 

They _just had sex_. And it was awesome. Because he’d wanted to and he’d wanted Chris and fuck, he still did. He would be perfectly happy if having sex with Chris skyrocketed in frequency on his activity list, and was up there with eating and breathing and shitting and other stuff he did on a regular basis. And that was bad. Because...he didn’t quite remember that part, actually, but it was bad. He frowned, his stomach starting a slow, uncomfortable descent into his abdomen. “Dude. This is weird,” he finally said, squirming under the way Chris’s eyes were burning into him with this crazy, sexy intensity. 

Chris reached out, thumbing across Steve-o’s lower lip. “No is isn’t. We already figured that part out, dude. It’s normal to fuck people you want to fuck, okay?” 

Steve-o rubbed his face with his palm, rolling onto his back so he could stop feeling so scrutinized under Chris’s gaze. And under Chris’s infuriating aura of cuteness, nonchalance, and unaffected self-confidence. He was too perfect; it was awful. “Yeah. But I want to do it again. Like all the time. And isn’t that weird? Like, what if you’re not into it?”

Chris made an elephantish noise. “Did it seem like I wasn’t into it?” 

Steve-o didn’t have to think about this one very long before he answered, even though he was inexplicably skeptical. “You seemed pretty into it.” 

“Yeah. That’s because I was. You’re freaking fuckable, man, I’ve been waiting for you to get drunk enough to wanna do me forever,” Chris answered sweetly, petting Steve-o’s hair, letting his fingers trace his cheek bones and eyebrows and clavicles and shit. “It isn’t weird. We love each other and stuff, what’s weird?” 

“...Forever?” Steve-o asked, eyes narrowing so he could steal a glance at cute-ass Chris with his flushed cheeks and messy, sweaty, dirty hair. “You’ve had a boner for me forever?” 

“Well not forever forever,” Chris said through a grin. “But like, pretty much since we became friends.” 

Steve-o was really bad at math, and he didn’t feel recovered enough from his orgasm to raise his hands and count on his fingers, but he was pretty sure that Chris had been hiding a boner for him for a long time. Possible as long as he had been hiding his boner own from Chris. Even though neither of them had been doing a very good job at hiding the respective boners, although they had done a worse job of reading the implications of the other’s boner. Or, at least Steve-o had. 

“Wow. I thought it was just me, this whole time,” he admitted, letting himself smile a little. 

Chris beamed at him. “So, not weird anymore?” 

Shrugging, Steve-o answered, “still weird, but I’ll get over it.” He turned his head to Chris, let himself bake under the bright, shining, blinding intensity of his cuteness and shit. He grinned. 

Chris picked some dried, crusty jizz out of the hollow of Steve-o’s throat with tender fingers. “So, does this mean I’m bumped to the top of your list thing?” He asked, almost shyly. “Because, like, my feelings were so hurt. I was gonna go cry over being unrequitedly in love with you if I couldn’t figure out what was up.” 

Steve-o laughed, nodding close into Chris’s space, lips itching with wanting to kiss him, bad. This was gonna be a thing, he could tell. A thing that was going to replace a lot of other things, or fill voids for shit that was already missing. Which was scary, but also good. So maybe making the list wasn’t such a bad idea at all. He cleared his throat, licked his lips. “If it also means that I don’t have to be on a desert island to fuck you, then yeah,” he said. 

Chris started laughing, hands coming up into a bunny pose for a second before resting on Steve-o’s shoulders. “Deal, dude,” he said before he was pulled in for a kiss.


End file.
